I once had a garden,
An agent of joy,
A hades of sorts,
In it was a series,
Of plants and of beasts,
Of interest I saw,
Was a triad of flora,
A rose, and a thorn,
And one which never was,
Chapter 1: The Rose
The rose was a gem,
A spark in the dark,
A glitter, a light, with lips glowing red,
A powerful fragrance,
A frail look and stem,
It stuck like a thumb with no crack or a dent,
It’s effect like ether,
Making me dizzy,
I loved watching this, spending time at its side,
Bit devoid of novel thoughts but I just didn’t mind,
A crackle for laughter so soothing in time,
A smile looking amber worth more than a dime,
Inside me was lit every ember and flame,
Pierced by its gaze, the flint in its phlegm,
Conventional, yeah, succumbing to trends,
To bits of some lunacy,
Ridiculous ways,
But even in that some reverence ensued,
Like though it was so it was nimble enough,
Discerning, considerate, transcending the world,
It could have been love, a gardener’s touch,
Or just little me thinking deeply again,
I woke up one morning,
Saw its leaves waterboarding,
And knew it was lost,
And so was me, yeah my Ace’s heart.
Chapter 2: The Thorn
Invariably so, it happens to be,
That just close to that was a thorn I could see,
A thicket of needles, a stinger, a weed,
A stain in paradise,
A taste of the sour,
‘twas dark, grey, and dusty,
An exacerbating tongue,
Skinny and ugly,
Emaciated often,
It thought itself wise and berated me,
Called me a slob, a slow-witted dim,
A lackluster kid with no initiative hints,
A loser who needed its help to exist,
I hated the thorn for its looks and it soul,
Still yet for the fact of its untimely existence,
I planted its seed in a time of my lack,
When it wasn’t apparent: My garden’s fertility,
In small doses yeah, I managed to stand it,
To let it the freedom to yap and to roam,
With naught but an aura, a flagrance, and pride,
Obnoxious demeanor, the mind of a drunk,
I never could find much in form of its use,
I woke one morning with an axe in my hand,
And chopped it for wood,
Burnt its ass to the ground.
Chapter 3: The Passing Fancy
The time of the rose and thorn took a dive,
Drove me to sadness, relief at their loss,
But having some space mighty left in the field,
I turned my attention to some budding plant,
Darkened and sweet,
Looking unique,
Came up this fancy riding the streets,
I couldn’t tell why, however it stuck,
But digging its roots to the dirt that it did,
I watered it often, unlike all the rest,
And spent all my time picking weeds off it sides,
I flaunted it, yeah, and told it of dreams,
Played it my songs and asked for its hands,
Unlike all the erstwhile plants I had in my farm,
Before I was toughened by failure and pain,
It gave me some hope for a joy and a life,
But lo! What a day I remember it well,
When I woke and decided to burn up the farm,
I wrote and I pulled, plowed with my axe,
And fancied that this though a beautiful thing,
Was naught but a fancy, a last whiff of wisp,
At my dreams as a boy,
To have plants like my peers.
Conclusion
Of days and times,
Of songs and mimes,
Of pains and whines,
Of wrongs and kites,
I’ll never forget my rose, thorn and fancy.
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